


Maybe Once, Maybe Twice

by shiphitsthefan



Series: Times Tables [2]
Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Big C (TV)
Genre: Alpha Lee (The Big C), Alpha Nigel (Charlie Countryman), Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, BDSM, Blanket Permission, Bondage, Breeding Bench, Clear Open and Honest Communication, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Domestic Disputes, Hand Feeding, Hannibal Extended Universe, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Lee (The Big C), Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Exchange, References to Past Non-Consensual Situation Not Between the Main Characters, Relationship Negotiation, Rough Sex, Self-Acceptance, Trans Character, True Mates, crawling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: “The fuck is all this?” Nigel asks, stepping into the room, kicking at a set of stocks.Lee chuckles. “I think we could safely call it a dungeon, my dear Watson.”“There’s nothing down here that couldn’t be achieved with plastic wrap, toothpicks, and a clothespin or three.”“Why, Nigel,” begins Lee, looking at him over his shoulder, teasing and sultry and absurdly innocent in that way only Lee could ever manage. “I had no idea I was dating the Marquis de MacGyver.Nigel grins, and starts to reply, and then sees what Lee is standing directly in front of.A breeding bench.***Nigel has demons to face; Lee has himself to unravel. The answer, obviously, is sexual healing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> tfw you set out to write a simple fic about a kink you've never written before and it turns into a multichapter adventure
> 
> I really should expect this by now.
> 
> This fic falls between chapters three and four of _[Never Have I Ever](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9989363)_. You don't necessarily have to read it first, but it will make Lee and Nigel's dynamic—and, more importantly, Lee's gender—make more sense.
> 
> Many, many thanks to the wonderful [victorine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine/works) for betaing! <3

Nigel has always been the adventurous sort, a man with danger that runs along each nerve, the kind of blood-borne violence that not even an alpha hormone chip can fix. That had been his public side once, his professional side—not that it was performative; the Nigel that killed and dealt and facilitated is definitely still the real Nigel.

But it’s only a part of him. When it comes to omegas, Nigel has a serious soft spot—at least, he had quickly developed one, once he was safely beyond puberty. Sex is the only time Nigel ever lets his gentle nature run free; it had been the only time he was ever safe to do so, back in his old life, though Gabi had almost ruined that for him, too. She had called him vanilla, and Nigel couldn’t exactly deny the accusation, then or now. Beyond talking dirty, Nigel isn’t down for more than what’s considered traditional. Alphas disciplined omegas in old-fashioned relationships, after all, so that hardly counts as kinky. The same applies to plugs, which are more of a toy now than the conceptive aid they once had been.

Lee, on the other hand, is probably the most  _ insatiable  _ omega Nigel has ever been with. He’s enthusiastic about everything life has to offer, but especially with regards to sex. A goddamn bedroom Olympian if ever there was.

It would be easy to chalk it up to having beaten the cancer that plagued him for over a decade, but Nigel knows better. Lee had apparently always been incredibly pro-sex, even when he was weakened by the chemo and settled for one-night stands and impersonal weekends. Nigel has no real frame of reference beyond what Lee says, which is that the sex is far better now that he’s being himself in bed, though it’s always been fantastic.

Even so, Nigel feels like there’s something...wanting. He’s not sure what, exactly. There’s an unspoken longing in Lee’s eyes, not while they fuck, but afterward, when they’re tied together, kissing, caressing. Nigel’s thought more than once about simply asking, but he’d rather Lee come to him when he’s ready, and Nigel’s willing to wait.

They’ve only been together a month, and Nigel already knows that he’s found his bondmate for life. Lee  _ is _ his omega, no matter what Lee’s biology says. He only wishes his radical acceptance hadn’t sent Lee into a bout of questioning himself. It hasn’t been a  _ bad _ development; it’s not had an impact on their relationship one way or the other.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Either that, or Nigel needed to broaden his own horizons, so he did his research. Now, Nigel’s educated enough to know that yes, he is definitely still vanilla, and no, that isn’t likely to change anytime soon, because no, tiny rods should not go  _ anywhere near _ the inside of a dick.

He has cultivated an aesthetic appreciation for ropework, however, but it doesn’t do anything arousing for him. The female alphas in leather boots are very easy on the eyes. That doesn’t mean he’s compelled to let one step on him. As far as watersports, Nigel is never going to be able to watch water polo again. Lee giggled for a good hour when Nigel explained that particular x-rated pornographic mishap.

“I’m perfectly fulfilled by our sex life,” Lee had told him, and then promptly slid off of Nigel’s lap and onto the floor to demonstrate with his perfect fucking mouth. Nigel came, and then he’d fingered Lee right there on the living room rug until  _ he _ came.

Still, Nigel isn’t convinced. There’s something Lee needs that Nigel can’t figure out. Maybe Lee doesn’t know, either.

“Nigel?”

He shakes his head to clear away the navel-gazing, staring down at his pile of chopped celery. Nigel puts down the knife and wipes his hand on one of the dishtowels. It looks clean enough. This whole domesticity business is more complex than organizing crime as far as he’s concerned.

“Still up here, darling,” Nigel says, walking in the general direction of the wine cellar. He still refuses to go into it, though Hannibal assured him that everything was, “Perfectly in order,” the last time they spoke on the phone. Knowing Hannibal, that meant his coffin was polished and the dirt was fresh for when he next flew in.

“Perhaps—and this is just an educated guess, of course—you might want to rectify that?”

Nigel scowls at his reflection in the chef’s knife. He swears he’s grayer than he was this morning. “Why is that? Are you naked?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t come down here.”

_ God fucking dammit. _ Nigel’s gone soft, and he can’t place the blame entirely on Chip Charlie.

The strings on the apron go flying as Nigel pulls it over his head, and the apron’s tossed into the sink along with the dishtowel. “Microaggressions,” Lee had called them once, Nigel’s petty little insurrections against Hannibal’s perfect life. “You really should learn to let things go.”

Except that Nigel’s never once been able to learn how to do that, especially when it came to potential mates. Of which there have been two, and Nigel really wishes that Gabi would stop popping into his mind every time he even  _ thought _ the word “mate” because that’s hardly fair to Lee. For starters, Nigel would have never obeyed Gabi and ventured down into what Lee promises isn’t a murder basement.

The staircase is, surprisingly, only a staircase—Nigel had expected the same sort of understated elegance that went into the decor of the rest of the house. Maybe an antler or two to break up the high-class IKEA feel. The walls are nice, though, a smooth unfinished wood, as are the stairs, cedar planks that Nigel thinks he could just tear right out and use for grilling.

It’s dark, though, the kind of dark that Nigel wants an actual goddamn torch for. Even the wine cellar itself is full of shadow. He feels more like he’s robbing a tomb then looking for a bottle, neither of which he’s doing; Nigel’s looking for Lee, who Nigel  _ is _ perfectly happy to steal from the cellar. If he wanted to run his hand along the wall, Nigel’s sure he could find a light switch of some sort. Since he still isn’t convinced that he isn’t walking into a crime scene, Nigel decides to just use what little ambient light there is.

“Lee?” Nigel edges his way around a shelf full of wine bottles, nearly tripping over a sturdy oak table-for-two. The candlestick is lit, casting shadows off of the glasses hanging down by their stems.

_ “Follow my voice, Nigel!” _ Lee sounds like he’s from a goddamn episode of  _ Scooby Doo, _ all shaking voice and spooky laughter.  _ “Lee has returned to the closet from whence he came!” _

Nigel swears as he stubs his toe on a chair. “This whole place is a fucking closet.”

“A wine closet,” confirms Lee, “but also a  _ fucking _ closet, apparently, which is where I am.” A pause, wherein Nigel’s hand finds a row of books instead of a wall. “Actually, this is more of a torture closet, all things considered.”

“I fucking knew it.”

“Nigel, why does Dear Cousin Hannibal need an iron maiden? Wait, no,” Lee decides, “don’t answer that. I want to maintain plausible deniability.”

“Where in Mary’s tits are you, gorgeous?”

A splutter of laughter; it sounds like it’s coming from behind the wall, from behind the books that are, in turn, behind Nigel’s palm. “Please don’t put me in Mary’s tits. It sounds dreadful.”

“I can’t put you anywhere until I figure out where you actually  _ are,” _ Nigel says, irritation creeping into his voice. The spine of a book gives way beneath his ring finger, and the case swings out into Nigel’s face. He watches as light spills out onto the floor as the secret door opens, braced against one of the wine shelves. If he knows his cousin, fucking anal-retentive freak that Hannibal is, they’re probably alphabetized.

“Sounds like you found me.”

Lee has his back to him, wine in his right hand like an offering, his left hand perched on his hip, wearing the kind of sweater Nigel had only seen on a bătrân before, though he supposes Lee is just as wise. He doesn’t stay focused on Lee for long, however, because that is definitely an iron maiden over in the corner, and a carefully cultivated display of increasingly terrifying headgear. There’s a rack of what Nigel is only going to define as implements if for no other reason than he doesn’t care to examine them further.

“The fuck is all this?” he asks, stepping into the room, kicking at a set of stocks.

Lee chuckles. “I think we could safely call it a dungeon, my dear Watson.”

“There’s nothing down here that couldn’t be achieved with plastic wrap, toothpicks, and a clothespin or three.”

“Why, Nigel,” begins Lee, looking at him over his shoulder, teasing and sultry and absurdly innocent in that way only Lee could ever manage. “I had no idea I was dating the Marquis de MacGyver.”

Nigel grins, and starts to reply, and then sees what Lee is standing directly in front of.

A breeding bench.

He’s vaguely aware of Lee continuing to talk to him, but Nigel has no idea what dialect Lee’s using to do so. All that exists is the bench, the leather-upholstered sawhorse, and the last time he saw one was when he was a goddamn kid, when he’d not been running drugs for the Cămătaru clan all that long. Some unlucky knothead’s omega paying off her alpha’s debt.

Nigel had taken his turn, because what the fuck else was he supposed to do? And he’d enjoyed it, too, in a sick way, watching that weak shit of a man that called himself her alpha sitting across from her, another lackey on each shoulder to hold him in place, stone-faced as his scroafă moaned and keened in pleasure around the bit in her mouth.

That was how the pack worked: you fuck up, you pay in flesh, in status, and in pride. So when they’d made the omega’s alpha take her place, handed her back off to their boss, Nigel had laughed with the rest of them.

Nigel might still be violent at heart, but he sure as shit isn’t that particular man anymore.

“I think I want to try it out,” is where Nigel tunes back in. Lee’s running his hand down the leather of the torso section, one knee up on a support, his glass of wine sitting on the floor. The glee on his face makes Nigel feel sick. “I know you aren’t—”

“No.”

Lee glances up, and then stands up, jean-clad knee still resting on the leather. “Nigel, are you alright?”

_ No. _ “Yeah, I’m great.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“You aren’t fucking getting on that thing,” Nigel says through gritted teeth. He wants to hit something, someone, make them bleed. The thought activates the chip in his head; now, Nigel wants to do all those things as well as vomit. “I’m not gonna let you.”

Lee narrows his eyes. “You aren’t going to  _ what?” _

“Get the fuck out of here. Go back upstairs and wait.”

“No!” Lee says, crossing his arms. Nigel can’t decide if there’s more hurt or indignation in his eyes. “This is ridiculous. I just thought it would be nice—”

Nigel’s got a fistful of Lee’s shirt in his hand before he realizes it. Now he wants to hurl twice as much. Still, Nigel manages to force out, “You aren’t getting the fuck on it, and I’m not going to fuck you on it, and that’s fucking final.”

He’s snapping, snarling. When Nigel opens his eyes, Lee has shrunk into himself, and it smothers every ounce of angry fear in Nigel’s body.

But it’s not enough.

Lee pushes Nigel off, looks like he’s going to punch him, and Nigel really wishes that Lee would. Instead, Lee storms out of the room, and back up the stairs. He slams the door to the cellar behind him; a few moments later, and Nigel hears the front door slam, too.

By the time Nigel makes it back upstairs, the meat has long since spoiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to go ahead and post chapter two because I finished writing chapter four last night. <3

Lee has a key to the house, not that Nigel would ever tell Hannibal. He gave it to Lee a couple of weeks into their relationship after Lee took Nigel back to his apartment for a change—“So we don't wear out your bed,” he'd said. But Nigel deemed Lee’s apartment completely uninhabitable, and then Lee had laughed and jokingly told Nigel that he should just give him a key to his place.

So Nigel did. The look Lee gave him, the wide-eyed sort of wonder and disbelief, was worth any shit from Nigel’s cousin.

Finding Lee's running shoes beside the front door is a common occurrence now, especially on Fridays. It's almost as if Lee's already moved in; maybe he has. As an alpha, it settles something primal in Nigel’s gut, the idea that he's a good provider and takes care of his omega by giving him shelter.

He has to pass the cellar on the way to the kitchen, and Nigel’s used to seeing the door downstairs open now, too. Hannibal’s going to flip when he finds out Lee was given free rein of the wine, but Nigel’s fairly certain he can handle that. Hopefully.

The front door closes silently whether meant to or not. That means Nigel’s presence goes unannounced, which might actually be a good thing. After Lee’s discovery of the weird-ass room with the breeding bench last week—and since Nigel’s extreme reaction to it, and complete dismissal of Lee’s intrigue, and near physical violence that left Nigel vomiting—there’s been an understandable tension between them. That scares Nigel even more, makes him worry about Lee leaving, though he couldn’t blame him if he did. They’ve barely spoken since the bench incident.

But Lee’s here now, and that’s a good sign for their relationship. More than likely, Lee is downstairs picking out wine for dinner, some chicken stir fry shit Lee picked out for them to make together, like they always do on Fridays. There’s no real reason for Nigel to seek him out when he could be putting away the groceries.

He sets down the bags and heads downstairs.

The cellar is exactly the same as the Friday before, except that there’s more light now, Nigel having installed a bulb and a pull switch overhead. But Lee isn’t perusing any of the three wine shelves. He’s not sitting at the tasting table or admiring the stemware, either.

The cliche as fuck bookshelf door is swung open, though, and that sends a chill down Nigel’s spine.  _ What the fuck is Lee doing in there? _

It’s a testament to Nigel’s years of practice at sneaking up on people, the way he creeps up to the door now, the way he peers around the corner into it. Regardless of his agility, Nigel is unused to having his breath taken away.

Lee’s set up the breeding bench, and set himself up on it, still clothed in those ridiculous little pink running shorts and too-big tee. His hips are pushed up by the sloping curve of the torso section, and his legs are splayed open, shins resting on the pads. Lee has his forearms on their respective pads, as well. Nigel can see the back of Lee’s head—he’s face down on the headrest, like he’s already restrained. Upon closer inspection, as Nigel squints from where he stands, it quickly becomes apparent that Lee’s fastened the first of the two head buckles.

That means he’s pulled the bit up into his mouth.

Nigel’s cock thickens in his pants, and he suddenly understands, he  _ gets it, _ the appeal and the longing and the hunger, even if he isn’t exactly comfortable with it. Where only the memory of that wisp of a girl laid before, now there’s Lee, warm and sensuous and  _ real. _ He’s crossing to the bench and to Lee before he can stop himself; Lee must hear him, because his hands fly up to undo the straps on either side of the headrest.

“Do you want to try out the rest of the straps?” Nigel’s throat is dry, and his voice sounds like it’s been dragged across sandpaper. “Go ahead and ungag yourself, gorgeous,” he says, but Lee had never stopped working the buckle to begin with.

“I only wanted—And you weren’t home yet and I was  _ curious _ so—”

“Hristos,” Nigel whispers. “Please, don’t be scared of me.”

“I’m not,” says Lee, and he almost sounds insulted. “I could kick your ass any day.”

Nigel laughs a little. “I’m sure as shit that you could.”

“It’s just that, as previously mentioned, I was curious.” It’s so very Lee, simply building the bridge back between them, like Nigel doesn’t need to be groveling at his feet and begging for forgiveness.

Which is exactly why Nigel admits to him, “I’m curious now, too.”

Lee settles back down on the bench; Nigel watches as the muscles in his legs slowly untense. “You really mean it?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I fucking didn’t.” He walks around to the front, crouching down to look Lee eye to eye from where his chin is now supported on his crossed forearms. “How long you been down here?”

“I’m honestly not sure.” He grins cheekily, and Nigel’s missed that mischievous smile of his. “Long enough to have dirty thoughts.”

“So, what? Three minutes?”

Lee outright giggles. “Then long enough to have almost accidentally taken a nap.”

“That comfortable, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lee says, “it was weirdly soothing. Calming. I thought it would be arousing but it was more supportive than anything else. Very handy for meditation. Nirvana through kink. Transcendent surrender.”

Nigel’s hand finds its way to the side of Lee’s face. Touching him is all the transcendence Nigel needs. “So this  _ is _ a kinky thing.”

“I’m...I’m not actually sure,” admits Lee, frowning. “I don’t think it is? Lying here felt like more, somehow, like something bigger than fucking around. It’s hard to describe beyond feeling like I was both connected to and dissociated from my body.”

“Do you want me to fasten you in?” Before Lee can answer, Nigel explains, “Not for sex. Just so you can feel it properly. Maybe gain, I don’t fucking know, greater understanding or becoming one with the universe or some shit.” Never mind that it might do the same for Nigel.

Lee hesitates, but ultimately nods. “Keep talking while you do, though, okay? I mean, I’ve done BDSM-adjacent activities before—my precancerous life was very much a free-for-all when it came to sex.”

“I don’t like the sounds of that.”

“That’s because you’re a jealous, possessive, angry asshole.” Lee’s head tilts to the left so he can free a hand long enough to ruffle Nigel’s hair. “I mean that in the best possible way, of course.”

Nigel has to duck free of Lee’s hand, ultimately swatting it away. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything.” He bites his lip, and his eyes shine. “Maybe we could start with why you’re so open to this now when you were treating my interest like the plague last week. Actually, no,” amends Lee, and now he’s pouting, and Nigel wants to kiss it off his face. “Let’s start with  _ why _ you had such a visceral temper tantrum.”

Sighing heavily, Nigel stands up. He stares down at the buckle for the second head strap—the one that would hold down the back of Lee’s neck, the one that worries Nigel the most. “It reminds me of shit we used to do to people back in Bucharest. When they owed or fucked up or plain pissed us off. I was a real fucking knothead back before I got chipped.”

“And you think you might hurt me?” Lee tilts his head back and to the side. “This adorable face? You would never.”

“It’s just bad memories, is all.” Nigel runs his hand down the expanse of Lee’s back, hating the shirt keeping their skin separated from each other. No, there’s no whimpering pissant in the corner here, and no clan curvă on the bench. “I would’ve once,” he admits, “sweet or not, if I’d had reason.”

“I trust you.”

Very quietly, Nigel says, “I know.” He takes a deep breath— _ in, out, in, fucking breathe, Nigel _ —as he places his fingers on the back of Lee’s head, not hard enough to push, only soft enough to encourage. When Lee settles in, Nigel takes up the strap. He hadn’t noticed the pad on it before, how it would hit the pressure point on the back of an omega’s neck to gentle them. Another steady inhale, and Nigel buckles the strap down before he can change his mind.

Lee practically melts.

“Lee?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Words, gorgeous. Use them.”

He laughs softly, like he’s drugged, but Nigel’s relieved to know Lee’s still cognizant. “It feels really,  _ really _ good. Like...like when you put your hand there? But it’s evener. More even. Sorry, I feel like I’m stoned to be completely honest.”

Nigel doesn’t know if he’s all together, himself. “Do you want me to keep going?”

“Are you going to check in on every strap?” Lee sounds almost disappointed. “How very modern of you.”

“You’re an irritating little shit,” says Nigel. He indulges himself, kneading his knuckles across Lee’s shoulders.

“You love it.”

_ I love you. _ “Which one is next?” he asks, even though he’s already reaching for it.

“None of them if you’re gonna rub my back.” He rolls his shoulders, dislodging Nigel’s hand. “The one at the armpits, I think. Though I’m fairly certain I shouldn’t have a shirt on for this—one of us should probably read up on the whole thing at some point.”

There’s a second buckle on the strap that he hadn’t noticed. It looks as though each one connects up to the next, like a T, a series of crossroads down Lee’s spine. “This shit is complicated. Like a goddamn cage. Who the fuck came up with this?”

“Misogynist alphas, I imagine. Feudal lords attempting to out-spawn each other.” He huffs before adding, “A blessing and a curse, I suppose, to be a male omega.”

“I believe we’ve just hit on what that bit is for,” and Lee’s laugh is easier this time. “You want I should do up the verticals, too?”

It’s oddly arousing, watching Lee try to shrug while Nigel fastens the band just under his armpits. He wonders what it will look like when Lee’s all buckled in, when he’s completely trussed to the bench. Nigel doesn’t understand why he’s anticipating it, vanilla as he is and past that he has, but it’s undeniable, the alphan urge to claim.

“Might as well,” Lee finally says. He sounds as affected as Nigel feels. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. Nigel runs the belt through the frame on the neckpiece—it feels different, buckling this one, bending it over to run through the frame again, pulling it taut.

Nigel swallows, once, hard. “Keep going?”

“Please.”

It goes the same for the chest and waist straps (pull, pull, thread, buckle, tighten; thread, buckle, tighten). Nigel’s already memorized the rhythm, though it took him a few tries on each strap to establish it. Before the movement registers, he’s beside Lee’s right leg, fastening down his shin and ankle. The left side isn’t done on autopilot, but Nigel supposes that’s only because he had to move.

Standing up requires a push off the ground due to his goddamn knees, but it’s worth the view. Were Nigel a younger man, staring down the expanse of his omega’s back, admiring the cant of his hips and the wide spread of his thighs, he’d be popping his knot in his pants. As it is, he has to squeeze himself through his jeans to keep himself from ripping off Lee’s shorts and fucking mounting him.

“I think I’ve figured out the fucking point of this,” Nigel says.

“Besides—oh fuck.” Lee’s ass barely wiggles as he tries to move. “I can’t...There’s no friction.”

Nigel’s certain that means something, but that hardly seems to matter. He rasps out an, “Oh.”

_ “Fuck, _ Nigel, come do up my arms.” He sounds urgent, and Nigel’s concerned about that—of course he is. It’s just that most of his blood has resettled from his brain to his dick, and that seems much more concerning.

Lee’s arms are practically twitching when Nigel takes a knee in front of him. He buckles in one forearm and one wrist, and Lee is breathing erratically. Biting his lip, reminding himself that this is what Lee just asked for, just now, Nigel straps in the other arm, too.

When Lee doesn’t say anything, Nigel asks, “How does it feel?” But Lee doesn’t answer, so Nigel goes to both knees, and sits back on his heels, and twists his head to see Lee’s face.

His mouth has gone entirely slack. Lee’s eyelids flutter along with each exhale. There’s no tension anywhere on his face, not a line to be found, nothing but smooth, relaxed skin. Nigel traces his bottom lip and is rewarded with the tip of Lee’s tongue sliding out to chase the end of his thumb.

“Darling?” Lee only hums at him. “Lee, are you alright?”

“It feels perfect,” he says, at last. “It’s like I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Like I’m not—oh God, Nigel, I can barely move.”

Nigel quietly panics. “Let me get you ou—”

“No,” gasps Lee, “no, no, not yet. I only meant that…” His face scrunches up as he thinks. “I’m not here for my own benefit. Well, I mean, I  _ am _ ,” he tries again, “because this is completely consensual, of course. But I feel safe and helpless and aroused all at once. Oddly enough, I feel  _ fertile. _ It’s heady.”

“So you’re enjoying yourself, then?”

“I feel extremely...myself right now, yes.” Lee pauses long enough to strain his fingers toward Nigel’s own. “It’s like I was missing something and found it as soon as the rest of me was taken away.”

Nigel has no idea how to even  _ begin _ to parse that out.

“I have only one purpose here,” he continues, “and that is to serve. I don’t even think I could get off like this. I am utterly, completely, wonderfully trapped. It’s easy to understand why feminists and omegists both are so anti-bench now. If I were to truly let myself go and stop concentrating hard enough to explain this to you, I’d be nothing but base, wanton need right now.”

“Jesus fucking Judas,” and Nigel really has to figure out where his vocabulary keeps running off to.

Lee licks his lips and blinks his eyes open blearily. “Would you—Nigel, would you put in the bit? I want to know what it’s like, when it’s all put together.”

“But what if you don’t like it?” asks Nigel. “What if you want it the fuck out, or want  _ you _ the fuck out?”

“Five minutes,” Lee says, and he turns those goddamn puppy eyes of his at Nigel. “Five minutes.”

Nigel’s throat tenses. “I have a number of fucking reservations about this.”

“I can tell by the cursing.” Plaintively, he adds, “But I think I need this. It feels bigger than sex.”

Soft. What’s softer than soft? Because Nigel’s gone that. He’s an overripe melon that gives to an elderly woman’s thumb.

Nigel sighs—“Five minutes, and I’m timing it.”—and starts pulling the black webbing back up through the frames on the headrest. (Thread, thread, buckle, tighten.) He's telling himself that the matching tension in his gut is unease, and maybe part of it is. There's a larger, more insistent part that wants his fingers to hurry the fuck up and then fuck in a hurry. “Too tight?” he asks before realizing that Lee isn't exactly going to be able to answer.

His neck is going to hate him in the morning, but Nigel cranes his head to look at Lee again.

Lee's eyes are completely glazed over. His cheeks are rosy like he's just come in from a long run which, alright, he technically has, but it's more of a simmering heat that's visible beneath his skin.

Heat.

The bottom drops out of Nigel’s stomach as an anvil simultaneously drops inside his skull. Lee was right; this is bigger than sex. This is bigger than Nigel knows what to do with.

Male alphas don’t react to the breeding bench like this. Neither should male omegas, for that matter, whether they experience heat or not.  _ Female _ omegas, on the other hand...

Nigel knows Lee's too strung out on endorphins to discuss it now, or even five minutes from now. He might not even remember how he felt before Nigel released him. This is likely going to be a subject that Lee will have to bring up, like Nigel suspected before, and Nigel is extremely not ready for that conversation.

Better to focus on the matter at hand. For now, at least.

He strokes Lee's cheek, relishing the muffled moan it elicits, considering what Lee will sound like when Nigel’s fucking him mercilessly, because they're coming back down here, Nigel knows.

Tonight, however, he's carrying Lee back upstairs, and putting him in bed, and ordering delivery from that Jamaican place Lee’s obsessed with, and then cuddling and eating dinner while they watch the next season of whatever that fucking modeling show is that Nigel can’t fucking stand.

Soft.

Softer?

_ Softest. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that fights between Lee and Nigel would never last particularly long. My smol gay cinnamon roll son knows that life is too precious and short and unpredictable to stay mad at people who wear questionable shirts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some heavy talk in this chapter about Big Important Things for both characters. This includes Nigel discussing why the bench freaked him out so much (see also: past noncon tag). I don't go into intricate detail, but if that's a sensitive topic for you, please be aware and tread wisely.
> 
> I'm extremely proud of this chapter; I hope you find it enjoyable. <3

They don’t talk about it over breakfast—brunch, anyway. Nigel’s hand shakes while he’s turning an omelet. He blames it on the absurdly strong coffee Lee makes before he goes running; the shit could wake up his dead grandmother.

Lunch comes and goes with no mention of the breeding bench, either. Lee babbles excitedly about the marathon he’s training for, and an especially bushy-tailed squirrel he saw, and how much spicier the curried goat is now than it was last night. Nigel can barely keep up, but that’s normal for Lee’s post-run conversations.

Lee doesn’t bring it up until they’re prepping dinner, the stir fry they were supposed to make the night before.

“I want you to fuck me on that bench.”

Nigel nearly lops off one of his own fingers. “The one in the park?”

“No, Mr. Green,” says Lee, poking Nigel with his elbow instead of the ginger root. “The park bench was just a red herring.”

“Are you saying you  _ don’t _ want me to fuck you on that park bench?”

Lee laughs. “I’m not  _ not _ saying it.” Nigel grabs another carrot, and this time, Lee does poke him with the ginger. It’s disturbingly phallic. “But you know the bench of which I speak.”

“Yeah, I fucking do.”

“So...fucking will you?” He grabs one of Nigel’s free-hanging apron strings, winding it around his fist, reeling him in as if Nigel weren’t already caught. 

Nigel gulps, setting down his knife and reaching for his glass without looking. It tips over, dripping water slowly into the floor. “Yeah,” he replies. His hand is still twitchy and nervous, but he manages to clasp Lee’s chin, anyway, watches the way Lee’s eyes light up when he does. “I fucking will.” Nigel’s terrified, but there’s literally nothing he wouldn’t do for the man he’s going to make his mate.

“Good.” Lee sets down the ginger in favor of grabbing Nigel’s other apron string; it gets the same treatment as the first. “We should probably…” He coughs. “You know, look up what to do or whatever. I mean, the old-fashioned part,” he clarifies. “You definitely know how to fuck me.”

“I might have done some reading this morning.”

An eyebrow raises. Nigel wonders if it would disappear under Lee’s hair were it already finished growing out. “Did you now?”

“How traditional are you wanting, gorgeous?”

Lee’s eyes close as he smiles. “How traditional are you offering?”

Nigel hasn’t lost his speed—not even Chip Charlie could take that away from him, even if it had curbed his rage. His hand moves from Lee’s chin to the back of his head, and his arm winds around Lee’s waist. Lee gasps as Nigel swiftly pulls him to his body. It’s beautiful, the way Lee exposes his neck without thinking, offering himself, his submission natural.

“I’ll wait until your heat—”

He shivers in Nigel’s arms. “My rut’s coming up.”

“When?”

“Next week?” Lee squeaks out.

Nigel growls, and that’s instinctual, too, makes Lee take up the fabric of Nigel’s shirt in both hands, his fists on Nigel’s chest. “When were you going to tell me?” He pulls Lee closer still, trapping his hands between them. Lee sighs, then tentatively rests his right temple on Nigel’s shoulder, though he has to stoop a little to do so.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “There’s a large part of me still wrestling with—with  _ this, _ whatever this is, whatever I actually  _ am. _ And I don’t know how to talk about it outside of being fucked or participating in fuck-adjacent exercise.” His voice diminishes to a whisper. “I never really let myself think about it when I was sick, you know? It didn’t seem important when I was staring down death, but now…”

It irritates Nigel, the continued unrolling of Lee’s years of self-denial, that Lee ever felt like he had to live like the dead. The more he learns, the more Nigel wants to spoil Lee rotten. “We’ll wait for your heat,” he repeats, softer, more soothingly, his hand dropping from Lee’s neck to rub circles on his back. “Keep going?”

Lee nods and pushes back into Nigel’s palm. “Dirty talk now, serious talk later.”

“I’ll lay you out,” begins Nigel again in that same slow, steady voice, “tease you until you can’t stand it, until all you can think about is how much you want my knot, a  _ real _ knot. You’ll need a good spanking again then, won’t you? To make you all docile and sweet.”

“Yes, Nigel, alpha,  _ yes.” _

“Of course you will. Taking you down the stairs will be easy as breathing after that, leading you to your bench, strapping you on to it.” Nigel hums as he angles his head back so he can drop a kiss above Lee’s ear.” God, Lee, your sweet little cunt—”

Lee exhales harshly, shocked and desperate. His cock is hard in his pants, but so is Nigel’s, and he pushes Lee up against the counter to better rub against each other. They're grinding, rutting, because Lee finds it just as comforting now as he did against alleyway walls or the stall doors of yellow-bulbed bar bathrooms. It's clean and quick and easy, Lee had explained to him; there was no time to think, only to  _ feel. _

“You’ll still be so wet from where I toyed with you earlier. And I’ll fuck my omega slowly, because you’re there for my pleasure, aren’t you?”

“Oh fuck. Nigel, I’m going to—”

“But you won’t come then, there on your bench, helpless and squirming, begging me for relief that won’t be granted until I say so.”

Lee cries out as he comes. Nigel can feel Lee’s knot pop against the seam of his jeans, and it only makes Nigel’s pants tighter. He keeps thrusting against Lee, mouth buried against the join of his neck and shoulder, until he finishes, too.

After Lee catches his breath, he says, “I think we knocked the chicken off the counter.”

“Fuck the chicken.”

“I’d really rather not,” says Lee, his laugh still shaky as they come down. “Besides, I thought you were vanilla.” He leans his head back against the cabinet and pulls Nigel in for a kiss, and Nigel follows him willingly, chasing the taste of ginger in his mouth.

 

* * *

 

It’s all they speak about over dinner, which is delivery again, because Lee refused to eat floor chicken, no matter how much Nigel swore that the fire would burn off the germs. He was only insistent because it made Lee laugh, and they both knew it. Besides, ordering out means more time they can spend making up, giving Nigel another opportunity to suck Lee off after their shower, to lazily touch and kiss after.

Lee makes Nigel feel positively gooey, day in and day out. He felt like this with Gabi, too, at first. Worshipful, yes, but not penitent.

“So then confess your sins to me, my child,” says Lee loftily, though that same enigmatic smile he always wears after sex soon re-plasters itself to his face. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

“I’ve suffocated men with plastic bags,” Nigel says quietly, watching Lee chew the bite of Mongolian beef he’d fed him. It always amazes Nigel, how Lee simply takes Nigel’s past at face value, how he doesn’t judge him for it. Even if Nigel hadn’t been chipped, he thinks Lee would’ve still accepted him. Nigel knows Lee is too good, that he doesn’t deserve him, but Nigel is too selfish to let him go.

Lee swallows; Nigel is captivated. “I don’t have an asphyxiation kink, so I don’t think you need to worry about that.” He prods Nigel’s bare knee with his chopsticks before ducking them back into the white takeout carton. “There’s more to this that you aren’t telling me.”

Nigel sighs, staring down into his own carton. “Back in Bucharest, there was—there was this...Lee, I know this is going to upset you.”

“I don’t know,” says Lee slyly. “I’m a sturdy little shit, remember? Even cancer cowers in the face of Lee Fallon.”

“Regular superhero, you are.” Lee indicates that Nigel should continue, so he does. “We had omega whores, you know. Got traded off between us and pimped out otherwise. Sluts.”

Lee winces. “I get the point. Though this does make your colorful yelling at  _ Drag Race _ make more sense.”

“And there was this scroafă that bonded with a higher up,” continues Nigel. “He had more clout than me, anyway. They both did. But he lost the clan a substantial amount of product, and that meant he had to be punished.”

Nigel’s voice shakes. He hadn’t expected it, the churning acidic warmth in his chest that crawls up his throat. It was years ago, and he hadn’t even really thought about it until Lee found the bench downstairs. The effect that simply talking about it has on Nigel is as disturbing as the event itself.

“She’d been off-limits since he bonded with her,” Nigel goes on. “So the boss put her back  _ on _ limits, and they did it by strapping her down to this breeding bench. He made the nenorocitule watch while the rest of us…” He sighs heavily, and can’t bring himself to finish.

“Nigel.” Lee urges his chin up with the square ends of his chopsticks. “Did you rape her?” No recrimination, not in Lee’s voice or in his eyes. Just a question.

“I don’t  _ know.” _ Nigel has never felt ashamed about it before now, and that makes the present shame all the worse. “I wish I could say no, that I didn’t, that she wanted it, but they brought us in, and they were already fucking her, and it was—it was expected, you know? Almost an honor to have been invited to share. She was ours; I didn’t ask, because that wasn’t what you did. I enjoyed fucking her, watching him watching me. They put the poor knothead on next, but I got called out to deliver. She stuck around the clan after that, though. Wound up having one of the boss’ bastards, I think.” Nigel shrugs and shakes his head. “Never saw that alpha again.”

There is a long, terrifying silence that Nigel is loathe to break. “You’re not going to hurt me,” Lee finally says. He sounds so sure, almost certain enough for Nigel to believe him.

“It scares me, how much I want to do this to you.” Nigel’s voice cracks again. Hristos, but this man makes him weak.

Lee looks at Nigel, that wet-eyed gaze that fucks with Nigel’s heart. “It scares me, too,” he says, “though for different reasons, obviously. I thought maybe—” Lee sighs as he stabs his chopsticks down into the orange chicken. “If it was sexual, I could just go downstairs and hump it out on the leather and be done with it. But I laid there and...Christ, Nigel. I really am an omega, aren’t I?”

Nigel’s vision blurs even more. So does the room. Everything goes fuzzy around the edges, because Nigel doesn’t know what to say. What  _ could _ he say? Bucharest wasn’t a friendly place for Lee to have ever been...Lee’s self. Dynamics issues weren’t even a consideration for Nigel, not before Lee.

“Do you feel like one?” is what Nigel winds up with.

“I want to be treated as one,” Lee replies. “Anything beyond that, more concrete than that, I’m not sure. But I like the more old-fashioned things, the dynamics. I don’t know why that is, either.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m a terrible omegist.”

They’ve already moved past it, just abruptly changed the focus to Lee, and Nigel knows that was on purpose. Still. “You aren’t angry with me.”

“About?”

“About what I said. What I told you.”

Lee touches Nigel’s face: his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “We can’t change the past, and I know better than to think you would do something so awful now.”

Nigel’s stomach roils in disgust. “Never.”

“I accept you,” Lee tells him, “all of you, even the terrible parts that aren’t you, anymore.” He wrinkles his nose. “Those words made no sense in that order.”

“But the things I talked about in the kitchen, you liked that?”

Lee is gracious enough to let Nigel change the subject again. “Very, very much.”

Nigel smiles because Lee is smiling again; it’s impossible not to match joy for joy when it comes to Lee, no matter how much Nigel hates himself at the moment. “So we’ll start there.”

And they keep talking, about the bench, about the baggage they are bringing to it. That night; the next afternoon; the day after that. Nigel isn’t sure that he’s ever had such open, honest communication with anyone in his whole life. It cements it for him, that this is the right way to go; that Lee is the right person to do it with; that Nigel’s instincts are decent and good for once.

Lee doesn’t want an out—“I’m serious when I say I’m old-fashioned,” he says. “I’m more pro-tradition than I am pro-dick or dick substitute up my ass.”

Nigel chokes on the stir fry they’d finally managed to make.

“Blanket consent,” explains Lee. “For however long we decide, you’re the boss.” Nigel watches Lee shift on the couch, sees his hand move restlessly on his thigh.

“How long do you want, gorgeous?”

“My entire heat,” and Nigel chokes again.

“The whole time? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Nope.” Lee leans back on the arm of the sofa and stretches his own arm over his head. A thin strip of his stomach peeks out between his tee and shorts. Nigel puts down his plate and settles over him to kiss the smirk off Lee’s face, and the conversation is over after that.

There are, at most, two or three days left to plan, and Nigel intends to use every minute available.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm eventually going to make an aesthetic for this fic, but it's difficult to find pictures of benches that aren't either a, occupied, or b, poorly framed, or c, made for livestock. Google isn't always helpful.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting in my Google Docs for entirely too long. I was trying to wait until I'd written the last chapter to post it, I think? Or I might just be an asshole and wanted to make everyone languish, wondering what happened next.
> 
> Both? Both is good.
> 
> (I really don't think I'm an asshole, but that's exactly what an asshole would say.)

The front door opens so hard that Nigel’s afraid he’s going to owe Hannibal money. Lee’s running shoes squeak all the way into the kitchen, but Nigel tries not to acknowledge him, keeping his focus on the pârjoale moldovenești. They’re going to need food over the next few days, and Nigel didn’t know what to make up besides his own usual rut fuel. Back when he  _ had _ ruts, anyway.

He hasn’t told Lee yet, but Nigel’s never done this, cared for an omega through their heat. Even Gabi would go off to a clinic when she had hers, which always sent Nigel on a bender. Nigel can’t afford to flip out now, to indulge his uncertainty. The bench incident was closer than he ever wanted to come to raging with Lee around, and that was hardly anything compared to how Nigel once was.

Lee doesn’t care about that, though, especially not now.

Nigel closes his eyes.  _ Listen to your fucking breath, măgar. _

“How long?” he asks, turning the flattened meatballs over with a wooden spoon.

“Last night,” says Lee. Nigel hears him lean against the butcher’s block, elbows thumping down on the wood one at a time. “Tried to sleep, then tried to run, then took a very long cold shower which my bank account will yell at me for next month when the bill comes.”

“How was your run just now?”

“Exhausting. I probably smell; can’t remember if I put on deodorant this morning or not.”

Nigel smiles, doing his best to focus on the browning meat and not Lee, who doesn’t smell like Chanhassen or sweat or musk. Only Bucharest, minus the stench of the streets in the unforgiving sun. But Bucharest smells of perfume, too, of the omegas who wear their scent enhancers, floral and feminine. Lee’s biology might deem this a rut; in Nigel’s mind, however, there’s no doubt that his mate is in heat.

His cock begins to fill inside his sweatpants. Nigel’s blood is already starting to burn, and he yearns to simply stride over to his prey, to hold him down and mount him. A desperately deep breath from the pan, and Nigel fills his nostrils with a waft of lamb and dill and sunflower oil, helping him to hold the beast in check.

“Are you ready, darling?”

Lee’s voice is desperate as he says, “God, alpha,  _ yes.” _

“Then strip.” Nigel pours every ounce of dominance into his voice that he can and remain impassive, but Lee whimpers behind him. It’s a toss-up as to which of them will wind up more undone at this point.

He must have worn only as much as he could stand, because the rustle of Lee’s clothes doesn’t last for long, and now Nigel has the mental image of Lee on the bus to Chanhassen, legs crossed, arms hugging his sides, trying not to rock with the severity of his need. Nigel focuses intently on the oil popping in the pan. His throat is dry as he swallows.

“Finished?” Nigel asks. There’s a half-mumbled response from the other side of the kitchen. “Then come here.”

Nigel allows himself to turn his head and watch Lee over his shoulder, because he  _ has _ to see this.

Lee trembles as he lowers himself to the floor, arms rigid at his sides. One knee, leaning left. The right knee, settling centered. Their eyes meet, and Nigel thinks he could come just like this, just from staring into endless, shining blue, but Lee’s lashes lower too quickly to find out.

Sitting back on his feet, Lee just breathes for a few moments, his shoulders rising and falling with the same steady breath Nigel’s seen him use during meditation. He leans forward (palm, palm) and lets his neck relax, lets his head dip, but not for long.

The popping release of suction between the floor and Lee’s hand.

The soft thump of Lee’s knee against the tile.

The undulation of his body as he crawls to Nigel.

“Gorgeous,” praises Nigel, because Lee is, especially as the sunburn blush on the back of his neck begins to paint down his shoulders. He makes himself turn back to the pan—half-charred meat, but who fucking cares?—though it’s difficult to tear his eyes away. However, it’s also part of the game. Nigel may be the alpha, but they both know that the power is in the surrender. He would never deny Lee his agency by refusing to take it away when offered.

Nigel scarcely recognizes himself. It isn’t just kink, because it isn’t just sex. He’s been controlling in the past, overbearing, suffocating, and yet still extraordinarily ordinary. Nigel doesn’t know what flavor he is now, and frankly, he doesn’t fucking care. Dynamics are delicious. Fuck defining any further.

Lee is kneeling beside him now—a quick glance down shows his hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs. The movement of Nigel’s own hand is smooth and natural, the way his fingers find their way to the top of Lee’s head, stroking his short hair, the hum and sigh it pulls from Lee like music.

“Good?”

“Wonderful.” Lee leans his head against Nigel’s leg, relaxing. “All I’ve been able to think about is your touch.”

Nigel grins. “Tell me.”

“I want your hands all over me,” says Lee. He raises up on his knees again, baring his neck, seeking Nigel’s fingers there, too. “I mean, there’s that itch under my skin to hurry up and come already, but I can still think halfway clearly. I want you to take me beyond that, like you talked about.”

“That still sounds fucking perfect.” Nigel gives the side of Lee’s head a parting pat. “Let me finish up here.”

Lee’s jaw moves against Nigel’s leg; his stubble drags against the cotton of Nigel’s pants. “I can’t decide which of us is more comfortable right now.”

“From what I’ve read,” says Nigel, maneuvering one of the patties onto a paper towel-lined plate, “your comfort isn’t my concern.”

“Oh my God,” Lee groans. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly my intent, no.” Nigel chases a particularly stubborn pârjoală around the skillet. Once it finally stops fighting him, he haphazardly arranges the next batch in the oil. They’re touching each other in spots; one particularly adventurous patty is trying to crawl up the side of the skillet, but Nigel is more concerned with the jittery naked omega at his feet who’s likely to climb Nigel like a tree if he doesn’t pay him more attention soon. “You hungry?”

Nigel feels Lee’s head shift, and then his body rubs down Nigel’s leg as Lee sits back down. “I haven’t eaten since dinner.”

“Which was?”

“Oatmeal,” says Lee. “I think...fruit? Wait, no, maybe it was pasta.” He huffs a laugh. “I honestly can’t remember. Almost didn’t eat, at all. Too nervous.”

Nigel finishes his futile attempt at rearranging the contents of the skillet. He leaves the wooden spoon balanced on the edge of the pan, then grabs a cool-enough pârjoală from the plate with a napkin before sitting down on the floor. “Come here, darling,” he says, putting one arm around Lee to encourage him into Nigel’s cross-legged lap. Lee lets Nigel pull him over; his nose seeks out Nigel’s scent glands almost immediately.

“You always smell so good.”

“Yeah? What do I smell like?”

“Cut grass,” Lee tells him, inhaling deeply, settling against Nigel’s chest. “A base note of dew, which doesn’t really  _ have _ a smell, but I know that you smell like that, too. Cherries and vanilla, but that’s more of a hint, a very fast top note of basque cake.”

Nigel wrinkles his nose. “I smell like cake?”

“My  _ favorite _ cake.” Lee takes another whiff. “You’re like a run and a reward all at once.”

When Nigel laughs, his chest begins to rumble, and Lee responds in kind. Nigel would swear that their hormones are beginning to affect each other, but he knows that's a biological impossibility. Maybe Nigel simply loves Lee that much, which would mean, of course, that—

Oh.

Nigel empties his hand (carefully, no floor food) and brings his palm to rest on Lee's cheek. He kisses him, slow and hungry, Lee’s back cradled in his other arm, his legs thrown over Nigel’s opposite thigh. Lee curls his fingers into the hair on Nigel’s chest, like he always does, skin magnetized to skin. His hands are strong and worn, like the rest of Lee, machinery operated under heavy strain, slowly rebuilding, and Nigel sees no reason whatsoever for that not to be feminine.

There’s nothing weak about Lee. Not one goddamn thing.

Lee moans, but their mouths are still closed, a deceptively chaste kiss considering their current state, discounting how Lee has turned toward Nigel’s body, how his cock is quickly hardening against the fuzz and pudge of Nigel’s stomach. Nigel pets down Lee's face and neck, down his smooth chest, his calloused thumb rubbing at Lee’s nipple.

“Please,” says Lee against Nigel’s mouth, sweet as spun sugar. “Needed to come since last night, needed to be  _ full _ since last night.”

“Poor mate,” Nigel says lowly, mouths still a breath apart. He loves the whisper-gasp the word pulls from Lee, the way it makes him wild. Lee's thrown his own arm around Nigel’s back, turned his face and body toward Nigel. He begins to rock himself against Nigel, and Nigel swats Lee's ass for it. “I’ll take care of you when it's time,” he tells Lee, and his breath puffs shallowly against Nigel’s skin.

He maneuvers Lee so that they sit back-to-chest; Lee grinds back against Nigel’s cock, a welcome and permissible pressure. The skillet continues to sizzle away, although, judging from the smell, the pork and beef have long since gone to charcoal. He can make more later, when Lee is asleep. Besides, Nigel only needs one for now, and he’d thought ahead and brought it down to the floor with him.

Nigel wraps his arm  up and across Lee’s chest, his hand on Lee’s shoulder, pulling him close and holding him tightly. With his other hand, Nigel breaks off a piece of pârjoală and holds it up to Lee’s mouth. It opens slightly, and Lee’s tongue darts out, serpentine, like he’s tasting the smell of the food instead of the food itself. The scent is apparently palatable, because Lee curls his tongue up and around the bite, closes his lips around Nigel’s thumb and forefinger, and sucks them clean on his retreat.

Lee’s hips make aborted little thrusts into the air and he whines close-mouthed. He’s still chewing and swallowing and parting his lips again as though he were a baby bird and not drowning in a flood of sex hormones. They’re halfway through the pârjoală before Lee turns his head away, cheek against Nigel’s shoulder—his breath is stuttering, and Nigel’s afraid he’ll choke if they continue.

So he does the only thing that seems right: Nigel wipes his fingers off on his sweatpants, and wraps his palm around Lee’s cock.

He jumps with the suddenness of it, beginning to pant within seconds. Nigel hears mumbles that sound like his name, and groans that sound like his place in Lee’s life. When Lee begins trying to meet him stroke for stroke, Nigel hushes him, holds him in place—“Let me do this for you,” he says. “You were such a good boy, waiting for my touch all night and all morning.”

“Nigel—”

“So good,” repeats Nigel, “and all you could think about is how much it ached, yeah?”

Lee nods shakily. “Yes! Yes,  _ hurts, _ alpha, please…”

“And your tits?” Nigel asks. He takes his hand from Lee’s shoulder and runs his first two fingers back and forth over a nipple, already pebbled. “Look how pretty these are already. Can’t wait to see how they look when they’re all red and sore and fucking swollen. How do you think the leather will feel against them after I’ve played with you as long as I like before I strap you down and breed you up nice and full?”

Panting and shouting, Lee comes all over Nigel’s fist, and Nigel wipes that off on his pants, too. He doesn’t waste any time, reaching into his pocket while Lee keeps shivering in his arms. The tablet he pulls out has a bit of lint that Nigel blows off before he coaxes it into Lee’s mouth. “Chew that.” he says, “Melatonin. You need to sleep while you can.”

“Mmm. ‘Kay.”

Nigel chuckles as he prods and pulls Lee until he’s sideways in his lap again, his face instinctively finding its way back to Nigel’s neck. Leaning his head back against the cabinet drawer, Nigel smiles, rubbing little circles on Lee’s shoulder and upper arm, listening to the sunflower oil pop and jump in the skillet, lulling Lee to sleep with the ebb and flow of his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to get this wrapped up by the end of the month! Fingers crossed, please. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [nudges the chapter count]

In spite of Lee’s explicitly given consent, Nigel is terrified. There are exceedingly few times over the course of his life where he can remember experiencing any kind of true fear, and none of them were ever like this. It’s a bone-deep terror that he’ll fuck up and lose Lee forever, or worse, that Nigel will fail so astoundingly as to make Lee take a step back, make him close off this side of himself and never transition into his true dynamic. Maybe even his true gender.

Nigel would rather Lee leave him than live knowing he’d trapped Lee in a body that wasn’t his.

He tries to push the concern from his mind, to quell his shaking hands and uncertain steps as he carries Lee to bed. Lee’s sleeping deeply, and Nigel’s glad for it—not because of the task ahead, but because of how tense Lee’s muscles still are and how much sweat already covers his body. Nigel suspects that Lee is farther into rut than he believed himself to be.

Opening him up is difficult without Lee awake and able to relax himself. He’s so fucking _tight_ around Nigel’s fingers, hot and smooth, the muscles practically sucking Nigel in. When Nigel finds Lee’s prostate, he rubs it carefully, a gentle massage, only hard enough to get Lee’s body to yield.

Lee moans softly, mumbling in his sleep, tension starting to drain away, at last. Peaceful. Almost innocent.

_Blanket consent,_ Nigel thinks, watching him. _Whatever I want. Total fucking surrender._

The temptation is too great, and Nigel wants Lee like this, all warm and soft and his. The thrill of complete possession runs along all of his nerve endings, makes his cock swell and thicken. But he can wait long enough to finish prepping him; as far as Nigel’s concerned, Lee’s going to get everything he wants.

Nigel grabs the syringe full of artificial slick off of the dresser. Omega cunts are soaking wet during heat, and Lee’s won’t be any different. The slick is a thick gel, designed for omegas who no longer or else cannot produce their own; if it works as advertised, the gel should last for at least the next three days, but Nigel’s prepared if it doesn’t. As long as Lee gets to have the feeling of dripping slick pooling around his groin as he lies bound to the bench, helpless to stop it, just like any other omega would.

Lee squirms a little as Nigel begins to depress the plunger. When he starts shifting back toward it, sleepily fucking himself on the syringe, Nigel gives up on taking his time, and pushes the remaining gel in all at once. They both need Nigel to fuck him and knot him, and they need it _now._

The emptied syringe clatters somewhere on the floor behind Nigel as he tosses it over his shoulder. He doesn’t even bother to undress, only frees himself enough to line up and sink in, and it’s heavenly, every cliche in the book, the way Lee’s so slick and slippery, body still lax as he sleeps. Lee does whine quietly, though, but never wakes up, Nigel taking care to keep to shallow thrusts. It’s difficult, because all he wants to do is pound into Lee, to fuck and fuck and take and take, but that will wake him up, and Nigel knows Lee will want to come to awareness gradually. This is how alphas and omegas traditionally behave during heat, Nigel keeps reminding himself, a litany of whispering his research in Lee’s ear, knowing his omega will reassure him even when asleep.

He feels Lee’s cock begin to stir within the circle of his fingers, and Nigel pauses to grope around on the nightstand for the knot sleeve he’d purchased. Nigel’s determined to pleasure Lee enough for him to come on his cock like a proper omega. It was how the gang had trained their scroafe, but Nigel manages to tamp down his instinctive nausea.

_Lee wants this. He wants this. He wants_ me.

Nigel stills his own movements, gritting his teeth to keep himself from continuing to fuck. The weight of his cock is heavy in Nigel’s palm as he tightens his grip and twists on every upstroke, pulling Lee to full hardness. He begins to rock between Nigel’s fist and groin, back and forth, not so much fucking himself as he is applying pressure.

Moving his fingers further down, Nigel feels the beginning pulse of Lee's knot as he approaches orgasm. He lets go—and that's almost as difficult as ceasing to thrust—and picks up the knot sleeve from where he’d placed it on the bedspread. It’s difficult to slip it over Lee's cock and unroll with one hand, but Nigel manages, kissing Lee's neck as he grumbles at the squeeze as the sleeve forces his knot to retract back inward. Nigel takes the band at the bottom and fastens it around Lee’s balls to hold it in place. No coming for Lee now, not unless he comes from being fucked alone.

It's so much hotter than Nigel expected it to be, the intensity of this level of control over his mate. He starts fucking Lee in earnest now, arm wrapped around Lee's waist to hold him still, biting into his own shoulder to keep himself from biting Lee. They hadn't talked about that when this was being negotiated; Nigel would never force-bond him.

The artificial slick is melting around Nigel’s cock, warming from the friction. It doesn't make Lee any looser, though, and the stranglehold on his knot is almost painful as it begins to inflate. He reaches down to feel where they join, rubbing at the rim; the stimulation is finally enough to stir Lee, one hand clumsily finding its way to Nigel’s thigh.

Nigel shushes him as he begins to mutter sleepily, “Rest, baby darling.” He nibbles at the shell of Lee’s ear, then adds, “My sweet little omega.”

“Feels good,” says Lee, grinding back weakly. “Am I awake?”

“Seems so, at least a little.” Nigel pushes his knee between Lee’s thighs to force his legs apart, then moves his fingers to run up and down the length of Lee’s cock; he wonders if Lee can even feel it through the restrictive sleeve. “You like waking up with me buried inside you?” Lee only nods and hums. “Must’ve been tired, yeah?”

“Exhausted.” Lee trails off when Nigel’s knot catches fully and he comes, flooding Lee’s wet hole. He yawns around a whimper. “Wanna come.”

“Go back to sleep, gorgeous.” Lee nods again, and then nods back off. 

Nigel’s never seen someone made so loopy by a drug as simple as melatonin, even if it was a high dose. It gives him ideas for the future, new negotiations to have, images of Lee warming Nigel’s dick in bed at night, Nigel allowed to toy with his body however he pleases.

Might as well start now, Nigel figures. They’re stuck together for the next twenty or thirty minutes. So he thumbs at Lee’s nipples, rolls them between his finger and thumb, pinches and tugs. At this point, Lee would probably be wincing—still moaning, but quickly growing uncomfortable. Now, all he does is sigh, letting Nigel prime him for the unforgiving leather of the bench downstairs.

Nigel comes again just thinking about it.

By the time his knot deflates, Nigel’s emptied into Lee twice more. He eases out, and the come and slick that had been trapped by his knot follows, soaking the front of Nigel’s sweatpants. Another blind search of the top of the nightstand, and Nigel finds the plug he’d left there.

Hannibal would be proud of him, he thinks, for being so prepared.

It isn’t a fake knot, but the plug is thick, so Nigel takes his time pushing it in. Once it’s settled, Nigel goes to the dresser again, and _this_ is what he’s been waiting for. Even though he longs to see Lee in lingerie, this is a more practical garment for their activities, and almost as soft.

Nigel slides the jockstrap over Lee’s feet and up his legs—it’s too small, but Nigel bought the wrong size on purpose. All he needs is for Lee’s balls to be pulled up tight, and for only the head of his cock to peek out the top where it can rub against the bench. He settles the thick straps in the right places, running a finger under the elastic; Nigel might not be concerned about chafing, but he _is_ worried about cutting off circulation.

Standing back up, looking down at Lee, Nigel thinks he might be ready for another round in spite of his age. Lee is fucking _delicious_ like this, face graced with a tired smile, eyes moving beneath his eyelids as he sleeps, debauched even though they’ve barely even started. There’s a swell in Nigel’s heart, so deep and strong that he’s choking and his own eyes are beginning to water. He wants this forever, wants Lee beneath him and relaxed and happy.

His lips find the sole of Lee’s foot, up the side and his ankle and along the curve of his calf. Nigel hadn’t noticed before, but Lee shaved his legs; they’re now as smooth and soft as he always keeps his groin. He kisses his way up them, across Lee’s hipbones and over his stomach. By the time Nigel makes it to his sternum, Lee is stirring again. There’s only so much exhaustion and melatonin can do when faced with raging alpha hormones.

_Omega hormones. Which-fucking-ever._

“Morning, sunshine.”

Lee’s smile grows, but he isn’t opening his eyes. “Gonna fall asleep downstairs, aren’t I?”

“Maybe.” Nigel’s straddling him now, down on all fours, dipping his head to keep licking and kissing Lee’s skin. “Smell fucking wonderful.”

“You, too,” says Lee with a hum, almost a purr. He finally manages to raise his arms enough to put them around Nigel’s neck. “Plug. Something constricting. What else?”

“Got some stimulating cream,” Nigel replies, “for these,” and he sucks on of Lee’s nipples into his mouth.

“Oh God.” Lee tugs Nigel’s head to the other nipple, makes satisfied little sounds when Nigel alternates. “I woke up at the right time.”

Nigel grins, worrying the bud with his teeth, listening to Lee curse and feeling him writhe within the cage of Nigel’s arms and legs. “Want I should do it now?”

_“Please,_ Alpha.”

A parting kiss, this one to Lee’s lips, both of them hungry and yearning, near unwilling to separate. But Nigel manages to, laughs when Lee complains, trying to chase Nigel’s mouth. He leaves one hand on the side of Lee’s face, stretching and reaching and finally grabbing the small tube of cream off of the bedside table. Nigel doesn’t take his hand away from Lee, just uses his teeth to pop the cap open, then clumsily squirts some on each nipple. The tube gets snapped closed on Nigel’s chin, then abandoned over the side of the bed so that he can rub it into Lee’s chest. His nipples are a painful-looking shade of red, but Lee seems to be enjoying himself, anyway.

“Feel good?” he asks Lee unnecessarily, because his omega is already trying to turn and grind against Nigel’s knee, his groans guttural and lewd. “That won’t do anything, darling,” Nigel tells him. “I already took care of that.”

Lee’s cursing so much that he sounds like Nigel. He swears even louder when Nigel crawls back down his body and begins to lap at head of his trapped cock. Nigel lets Lee grip his head tightly, fingers pulling Nigel hair to the point of pain, keeping his mouth where Lee wants it, encouraging his own torment whether he realizes it or not. His precome is already thick, dribbling out of his cock and pooling beneath the head for Nigel’s eager tongue to swipe up. Nigel still hates the taste; he’s never going to get used to the bitter tang of alpha.

_Omega._ Fuck, _but dynamics are a nightmare, and so is gender, and anatomy. Is this Lee’s cock? Lee’s clit?_

_Jesus fucking Judas, Nigel. Just suck on Lee’s goddamn whatever._

Nigel does, and Lee’s loving it—at least, for a while, until he realizes that all Nigel intends to do is tease, to lick across and around the head with only the tip of his tongue. With a frustrated growl, Lee gropes himself, trying to figure out what the issue is.

“Holy shit,” he finally says. “You’ve got me sleeved.”

“That a problem?”

_“Christ,_ no. Fuck,” and Lee’s panting now, close to humping Nigel’s face. “Fuck, I’m just—I’m—I’m ready for the bench, Nigel, Alpha, please.”

“Not until I say you are.” Nigel concentrates just on the slit now, almost tickling it with his tongue, barely-there licks that are making Lee shake. He grabs Lee’s wrists when he tries to angle Nigel’s head to move his mouth, and is amused when all that does is make Lee struggle harder, makes his cock leak even more than it was, almost a steady stream now. “I did say I’d drive you crazy first, didn’t I?” he murmurs against the sensitive skin.

“I’m there, Alpha, I promise you, I’m _driven.”_

So Nigel gives a final graze to the head of Lee’s cock, just a hint of teeth.

Lee’s entire body seizes up as he comes, and Nigel’s not sure which of them is more shocked. Lee's chest is heaving, and tears are gathering at the corners of his eyes, and there's a flush of embarrassment across his chest, a light sunburn next the flaming scarlet of his swollen nipples.

“Sweet little thing,” says Nigel, shushing him, moving to sit on the bed and gather Lee into his arms and on his lap. Lee hides his face against Nigel’s scent glands, sniffing and licking and shivering. “It's alright.”

“You didn't—I didn't mean—”

Nigel runs his fingers through the scant bit of hair Lee's managed to grow. “I'm not angry.” He pauses, then dares to add, “But good omegas only come from being fucked.”

The sound Lee makes is indescribably hot, some ill-fated cross between a whimper and a snarl, like Lee’s caught between alpha posturing and the dominance of rut and his omegan nature, his proclivity for submission.

“I was already going to spank you,” says Nigel, and Lee nods frantically against his neck, still sounding lost and hopelessly aroused. “Lie across my lap.”

Lee scrambles to comply, though Nigel has to arrange him into position—he's so overwhelmed, and Lee’s rut has barely started. His nipples graze against the soft fabric of Nigel’s sweatpants, and Lee begins to mindlessly rub his chest against Nigel’s thigh.

It's as good a time as any to land the first blow, and the resounding smack of Nigel’s palm to Lee's ass makes them both gasp.

Now that he's started, Nigel can't bring himself to stop, not with the way Lee is pushing back to meet his hand, crying out in something close to joy. The more Nigel spanks him, however, the more relaxed and quiet Lee becomes; he's still rocking his ass into Nigel’s palm, but Lee’s also melting in his lap. Meek and compliant aren't words Nigel would have thought truly applied to Lee before this.

Nigel pauses long enough to run his knuckles over Lee’s ass, kneading the reddest spots. He slips a finger beneath each of the four elastic bands of the jockstrap, pulling them, snapping them. Lee barely jerks from the impact, only moans. Nigel wonders if he's reduced Lee to nothing but sounds, and starts pinching his ass, just to see what other noises he can provoke.

“More, Alpha.” Lee’s voice is dry and cracked. “Please, more.”

Unwilling to truly hurt Lee, Nigel keeps his swats only hard enough to sting, then immediately soothes them away. He finally stops spanking altogether, only rubbing Lee's ass. It's only a matter of time before Lee drifts off again, still hard and leaking against Nigel’s thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These assholes will get downstairs eventually, I swear.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a gratuitous smut fic because there weren't enough breeding bench stories for me to read. I wasn't expecting all of these feelings, but here we are. Thanks for joining me on this kinky emotional rollercoaster. <3

No matter how often he carries Lee, Nigel is always taken off guard by how slight he is. It makes sense, given that it's only been a handful of months since Lee stopped chemotherapy. His appetite may have returned—“With a vengeance,” Lee’s told him, even though Nigel swears that he eats like a hummingbird—but Lee hasn’t put on much weight. He runs cold enough to need at least one blanket in addition to Nigel when they cuddle up to watch Netflix.

Thankfully, Nigel’s taken what he deemed necessary measures for Lee's comfort, if not outright precautions for his health. There’s a new space heater in Hannibal’s fucked-up bookshelf room; a stack of stupidly soft blankets and pillows; Lee’s equally intolerable favorite sweater, which Nigel grudgingly slept with to make it smell like himself. Lee explained that the bench was comfortable, but Nigel doesn’t want to take any chances. No matter what Lee wants, Nigel isn’t going to keep him strapped to the fucking thing for his whole heat. Omegas like to nest; it would be criminal to deprive Lee of the opportunity. So Nigel had moved all of the other terrifying torture devices out to the garage (and hadn’t  _ that _ raised the neighbors’ brows) and piled everything made of fabric into a corner.

He hopes Lee likes it. Lee seems to be enjoying himself so far, but Nigel remains nervous, no matter how long of a pep talk Hannibal and his bored-sounding alpha had given him.

Hannibal even wants Nigel to check in afterward—something about being curious as to how the bench actually feels, as reviewed by a male omega. Nigel considered telling Hannibal that he wasn’t positive Lee was male; that felt like it would be a breach of confidence, though, so he’d refrained.

Nigel thought he would mind more, dealing with Lee and his shifting self, thought that he wouldn’t be able to manage how complex Lee’s gender was, or that Nigel would generally be a shitty knothead, whether he meant to or not. Holding Lee close like this, trying to navigate them downstairs, all Nigel can think of is how perfectly they seem to be matched. Maybe Chip Charlie is doing his brain some good, after all.

“Lee?” He rubs his nose against Nigel’s neck; it’s as much of a reply as Nigel expected. “Need your help getting you on this goddamn thing, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Snuggles?” Nigel’s heart is going to melt right into his stomach if this keeps up.

He kicks the blankets and pillows into a more spread-out pile, has to try and balance when a throw gets caught around his foot. Getting them to the floor is an exercise in prayer, but they do get there, and Lee starts drowsily arranging everything, still mostly asleep. Nigel spoons him there in his haphazard nest, staring down the bench all the while.

 

* * *

 

The plan’s gone all to hell. Not in a  _ bad _ way, but it’s changed enough to no longer be giving Nigel the confidence he’d been quietly depending on. Lee seems more rested, however, and that’s good, as long as it doesn’t make him aware enough to notice Nigel’s shaking hands.

Right now, Lee is just content to lie there with him, both awake, both scenting each other like it’s the last time they’ll ever use their noses. Nigel’s finding it hard to believe that Lee is still this collected over a day into his rut, but there’s no smell of arousal, whatsoever.

“You alright?” he asks against Lee’s neck. When Lee clears his throat to reply, Nigel mouths his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Nesting is surprisingly satisfying.”

Nigel snorts. “I fucking noticed.”

“You meant the symptoms of my rut, then.”

It bothers Nigel, Lee not calling it his heat, enough so that he pulls back from Lee to look at him. “Rut?”

But Lee looks away; his cheeks rouge themselves as he picks at the edge of a blanket. “Would you believe that I’m scared?”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“No!” Lee’s eyes fly back to Nigel’s, staring up at him adoringly. It’s unnerving, how he can appear so put together and certain even though Nigel detects a tinge of fear in his scent. “I still want you to breed me,” and  _ fuck _ if that doesn’t go straight to Nigel’s cock. “It’s just finally bothering me what that might mean, that’s all.”

Nigel takes a deep breath. It makes his lungs hurt alongside his heart. “You mean if you’re a woman.”

“Yes,” Lee whispers, reaching for Nigel’s face, cupping his cheek in his palm. “That.”

“You know it doesn’t fucking bother me, right?”

“It might fucking bother  _ me.” _ Nigel wipes one of Lee’s tears away with his thumb, keeping it from sliding into his ear. “I like my body as it is. I’m gay. I don’t—Christ, Nigel, I don’t want to lose my identity, or else sacrifice it for another identity that is, somehow, also mine.”

Nigel slides a hand behind Lee’s head. “Want me to put you on the bench?” Lee chews on his bottom lip as he nods. “Then baby steps, gorgeous. Don’t have to take it all in at once.” He lowers his lips to Lee’s ear and says, “Let me make you feel good, and we’ll work through the rest as we go, yeah?”

Lee turns his head and captures Nigel’s lips, practically devouring. His mouth is still dry, and Nigel growls at himself for forgetting, though Lee interprets it as desire, moaning back. Nigel is plenty desirous, but this new feeling of protectiveness is what dominates him.

He pulls himself away, smiling at Lee’s grumbling. “Water,” he reminds him. “You need water or you’ll dehydrate.”

“Need you.” Nigel grabs a plastic bottle; by the time he looks back, Lee’s face has grown pink, his ears turned an alluring shade of red like they always do when he’s aroused. “Need, just  _ need.” _

“Stand up.” Lee’s blinking rapidly, but he complies, lets himself be turned so that Nigel’s front is against his back. Nigel puts the lip of the bottle to Lee’s mouth—“Come on, baby darling, open up for Alpha.”—and Lee drinks almost half of it before Nigel just hands it off to him. He pulls the cream out of his pants pocket and reapplies it to Lee's nipples; Nigel’s own skin feels too tight, and he can’t stop baring his teeth, snarling. Lee drops his head in response, and Nigel immediately worries the back of his neck with his fangs. He can smell the heat coursing through Lee's veins, as heady as the blood itself.

And that...shouldn't be happening.

“Oh shit,” hisses Nigel, quickly pulling away. “Oh shit, oh fuck, oh god _ dammit.” _

“What?” Lee sounds as barely coherent as Nigel is beginning to feel.

“I’m going into rut, that’s fucking what!”

Turning gingerly, breathing heavily, Lee reminds him, “That’s impossible. You’re chipped. The only time you should go into rut is—” His eyes widen, and he stops breathing altogether. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re—”

Nigel keeps nodding. “Yeah.”

“True mates?” Lee’s voice is small, sincere, shocked beyond belief. “How?”

His hands are on Lee immediately, one on the back of his head, the other around his waist. “Because you’re an omega,” he says, “and you’re fucking  _ mine.” _

Lee’s eyes are fluttering so quickly Nigel briefly wonders if his eyelids are about to take flight. He goes limp in Nigel’s arms. “Take me,” Lee whispers. “Mate me.”

“Next time,” promises Nigel, “when we’re both in our right minds. Want you on the bench right fucking now before I’m as gone as you are.”

“That’s...disappointing, but fair.”

Nigel smacks Lee’s ass. “Go on, then. Up you go.”

Lee's stumbling all over himself as he gets on the bench, a newly birthed fawn, clambering toward danger. He groans as soon as his chest rubs against the leather. His hips begin moving mechanically, rutting his swollen, captured cock into the padding while he can still move. Watching his omega trying to get himself off flips a switch in Nigel’s brain, a newly installed mod to the chip. Nigel’s mate shouldn't be doing that; doesn't Lee know that his pleasure belongs to his alpha?

He waits for Chip Charlie to fuck up his feelings. The nausea never comes.

It's easier to secure Lee to the bench this time, because there are too many hormones flooding his brain for him to be nervous, too much adrenaline running through his body to be cautious. Nigel is as rough as he dares—“Omega wants to be punished, doesn't he?”

“Alpha…”

The resounding smack of Nigel’s fully open palm on Lee's ass creates a primal sort of satisfaction in his gut. If Lee's joyful shout can be trusted, it does for him, as well.

Nigel does it again.

“Bad little omega,” he continues, “trying to come without Alpha.”

A third time.

“You like this, pretty mate?”

Nigel buckles another strap tightly, reminding himself to go back and check them once the red in his vision clears.

“Wanted my attention however you could get it?”

And a fourth.

“Needed me to calm you down? Settle you? Put you in your fucking place?”

_ “Yes!” _

Nigel doesn't think he's heard Lee so wanton before. Fuck, he doesn't think  _ he’s _ ever been so wanton, himself.

The rest of the straps and buckles go quickly, a blinding blur, until all that's left is the bit, and now Nigel hesitates, feeling that earlier shakiness creep back in, his rut ebbing back for what he knows will be the last time. He strides to the front of the bench while he can—one, two, half a step—kneeling at Lee's head, craning his own to see his face.

Lee's face is as slack as the rest of his body, liquified. It's impossible to resist petting his cheek, making Lee blink his eyes open slowly, a smile creeping across his face.

“Thought I'd check in,” Nigel says.

“Such a good alpha.” Lee’s gaze is so affectionate that it's almost suffocating.

Nigel tries to swallow; his throat’s too dry, and he knows he can't fight off his rut much longer. “Got a good omega to care for.” Both of his hands are drawn to Lee's face now, making Lee sigh.

“You're a better man than you think you are. When we're bonded, someday,” and Lee's voice is breaking, “you'll see yourself the way I do.” He glances to his own hand and wiggles his fingers. Nigel takes the hint and holds Lee's hand. “I trust you, Nigel. I  _ love you. _ I want this, and I want you, and everything you are.”

It's too much. Nigel can't take hearing anymore, not right now. He can cry later. “Ready for the bit, gorgeous?”

Lee doesn't speak. He only grips Nigel’s hand as tightly as he can, then opens his mouth.

Nigel takes this buckle gently, gags him slowly, giving him time to back out, time he knows Lee won't need. The leather is soft under Nigel’s fingertips, and he moves on to all the other straps, testing them, taking extra time to stroke Lee's skin beneath them. It doesn't pull any noise from Lee, but Nigel didn't expect it to. This is possessive, territorial, an alpha’s check for his omega’s comfort.

He works down Lee's sides; his thighs; his feet, kneading the soles with his knuckles. Nigel’s sweating so badly now that it drips into his eyes, stinging as much as his muscles are as he holds himself back. When he tries to swallow now, his mouth is no longer dry; instead, Nigel can’t stop salivating, close to drooling as badly as Lee probably is around the bit.

The thought alone is enough to drive Nigel into the frenzy he's been fighting. He snarls, rolls his shoulders hard enough for the joints to pop, and sinks his teeth into one of the forming bruises on Lee's ass.

Lee jerks slightly, making a high-pitched grunt. It's all he can do. Nigel growls, shaking his mouthful several times before unlatching, relishing his omega’s inability to struggle beneath his alpha’s mouth.

_ Slick, _ his brain demands.  _ Fertile. _

He's mindless as he spreads Lee's cheeks and starts to lap at his hole. The artificial slick is flowing copiously now, warmed from the hours held in Lee's ass already. Nigel nips at the rim; shoves his tongue inside, chasing Lee's slick; sucks it out and pushes it back in, mixing it with his spit, claiming him. Lee is usually vocal when Nigel rims him, loud enough to make Nigel glad Hannibal set him up in a house and not an apartment. Now, gagged, Lee's gasps are quiet and wet, and he isn't pushing back into Nigel’s mouth. Nigel almost misses Lee riding his face, but this feels fucking delicious, too, the way Lee has to lie there and  _ take it. _

Groaning into his ass makes Lee shudder, just a little, as much as he's able. Nigel moves faster, licks harder, thrusts his tongue in roughly. There's nothing gentle about this, and Nigel loves it.

They're both messy with spit and slick by the time Nigel stops, mouth exhausted. He feels dissociated from himself, watching one hand take out his cock, seeing the other push his sweatpants down far enough to catch under his balls. Nigel’s breaths are shaky as he guides himself to Lee’s entrance—Lee tries to rock back to meet him, greedy cries and strangled repetitions of, “Alpha, Alpha, Alpha.”

The sudden push in surprises them both, and then Nigel can't stop.

He mounts Lee, covering his back, the metal buckles digging painfully through his shirt into his chest and torso. Nigel grabs Lee's forearms tightly enough to strain his fingers. His teeth dig into the meat of Lee's shoulder, so close to where his instincts are telling him to bite. Regardless, there's blood in his mouth, and mindless shouting from his omega.

Nigel fucks him, brutal, beastial, beautiful. Sex has never been like this before, pure in its impurity. Lee is limp beneath him, panting nonsense around the bit. The bench moves beneath them, shifting forward and backward in time with Nigel’s thrusts. Lee’s blood is as warm as his hole; Nigel digs his teeth in further, but Lee doesn't scream, only moans.

When the base of his cock finally begins to swell, Nigel speeds up, uncaring of the pull and drag of Lee's ass around him, never changing angle, rutting into him violently. He almost pops his knot outside of Lee, and howls as he forces it in, capturing and pleasing his mate.

The wound beneath his mouth is deep and bloody, torn skin and muscle. Nigel smoothes his tongue over it, kissing it, sucking on it. By the time he passes out, still buried and caught inside Lee's ass, Nigel is nuzzling Lee's shoulder, listening to the purr of the omega he shelters.

 

* * *

 

Nigel barely remembers any of the next three days.  _ Four days? No, three. Definitely three, _ he decides. It’s not like Lee’s memory is bound to be any better than Nigel’s.

“I remember sex,” says Lee, the two of them lying in a sated, sleepy pile in a tangle of pillows on the kitchen floor, feeding each other bites of refrigerated chicken ghiveci straight from the container. “There was a lot of it. Good sex.  _ Fantastic _ sex.” He turns a gaze to Nigel that's comfortably electric. “True mates. I remember that, too.”

“How could you fucking forget?” He tries to stroke Lee's cheek, but only succeeds in smearing sauce on it. The only option, of course, is to stretch himself over and lick it off.

Lee giggles and squirms under Nigel’s tongue, only to hum happily when Nigel gives his cheek a parting kiss. “I suppose we should talk about that.”

“You sound disappointed,” and Nigel would feel more unsettled if he wasn't so goddamn happy.

“Not disappointed,” Lee says. “Not disappointed, at all. Anxious, maybe. Apprehensive? Definitely have my petticoats all aflutter.”

“Because of me?”

“It's not you, it's me. Except it really  _ is _ me, and not just a cliche.” Lee sighs, but he doesn't stop smiling. In spite of his words, he seems genuinely content. “I think you're having an easier time with acceptance than I am.”

Nigel shrugs. “You are who you are, Lee. I'm good with that.”

Lee's cheeks keep getting progressively pinker. “And you make it easier for me to figure myself out. But right now,” he says, “I want to bask in the afterglow, all nestled up on the floor, eating my alpha’s delicious food.”

They do that quietly for a few minutes. “Lee?”

“Hmm?”

“Doesn’t this count as floor chicken?” Nigel asks, scooping out another bite with the teaspoon he’d managed to find when he groped around in the silverware drawer.

“This absolutely does  _ not _ count as floor chicken. No floor cuisine could ever taste this good.”

“Entirely depends on the floor.”

Lee pokes a bite into Nigel’s mouth and says, “Hush, Alpha, I’m trying to inflate your ego.”

“Too fucking late, gorgeous.”

“And don’t talk with your mouth full. Your oddball cousin would probably kill you.”

Nigel dutifully chews and swallows. “Hannibal’s not some kind of psychopath, you know. He just has a room full of torture devices. In his wine cellar. Hidden behind a bookshelf.”

“Perfectly normal,” agrees Lee. “Although…” He looks thoughtful, and mischievous, and Nigel knows that’s a dangerous combination.

“What?”

Lee grins. “I wonder what’s up in the attic?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging [the aesthetic on tumblr](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/170734618639/maybe-once-maybe-twice-by-shiphitsthefan)! The more sinners, the merrier the circle.
> 
> I have several more fics planned for this series, so this isn't the end! Only the end for now. See you soon. :D

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> Kudos and [comments](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/profile) validate my existence. <3


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